


Faineancy

by Skylark



Series: Dirkgineer/Jakeologist OTP [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boyfriends, Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Happy Dirkjake, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Skylark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe in another life you'd say, <i>This is boring, Dirk.</i>  Maybe you'd say, <i>You've been at it for hours, give the old computer a rest and let's go on an adventure? Do say yes.</i> But right now you can't think of anything you'd rather do than feel your skin stick to the cherry floorboards and breathe in his cologne.</p><p>(or, a modern AU where Dirk is an electrical engineer and Jake is an archaeology student, though none of that is readily apparent here.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faineancy

Sometimes you sprawl on the floor with your head on Dirk's thigh and watch the ceiling fan twirl lazily above you.  You're both from hot climates and well-acclimatized to soaring temperatures, but that doesn't mean you enjoy the drag of humid air into your lungs or the feel of your hair sticking to the back of your neck.  You need a haircut, you think.  You have to remember this time.  The thought disappears in moments.

Dirk adopts a tailor's seat as he types on his laptop, shoulders rounded.  His elbows rest on his knees and his body curves over you.  Your gaze flicks from the fan to Dirk's strong jaw and the long lines of his throat.

"Hey," you whisper.  "Strider."

Dirk doesn't respond.  In the gap between his shades and his face you can see that he's glaring at something on his screen, probably code.  Maybe a program to control the sprinklers that water the vegetable garden, maybe a virus to blow the reinforced doors of every bank in Switzerland.  It's all the same to you, really.

"Fuck," he mutters.

You smile senselessly at that.  "Something the matter?"

"Fucking computer won't delete the old OS packages," he says.  "It's keeping them all on the boot partition, it's not like I'll ever need them again."

You have no idea what he just said and don't particularly care.  His laptop fan whirs in the heat.  You reach out a hand and feel it blow hot air across your fingers.  It makes the rest of you feel cooler.

It's so rare to have a day where neither of you are tearing off to accomplish something.  Dirk's a workaholic and you—you just like to keep yourself occupied.  Always on the go, that's you.  Idle hands and all that.

Maybe in another life you'd say, _This is boring, Dirk._  Maybe you'd say, _You've been at it for hours, give the old computer a rest and let's go on an adventure? Do say yes._ But right now you can't think of anything you'd rather do than feel your skin stick to the cherry floorboards and breathe in his cologne.  You gave it to him for his birthday a few months ago, and it's a touch too strong—Dirk's never been subtle.  You find it terribly charming.

Dirk types at 120 words per minute; he can spit words out even faster than that, it seems, when he's got a sick beat backing him; he can run for miles without pause.  He wakes up at the crack of dawn, like you, but he goes to sleep long after you do—you keep an old man's hours, it's good for the soul, you say.  He rolls his eyes at you over breakfast, but every night he creeps into bed beside you and breathes a sigh of relief when you pull him close.

You walk your fingers up his thigh towards his arm and curl them into the soft hollow inside his elbow.  He twitches and finally glances down.

"What's up?" he says.  When he catches sight of your half-lidded expression, he smirks.  "You want something?"

"And what if I did?" you reply. You flutter your eyelashes at him and get a bark of laughter in response.

"Well, if you're asking—"

"Consider yourself duly asked!" you say.  "Party of two, the bedroom, a minute or two from now.  Please RSVP at your earliest possible convenience."

He pulls a hand from the keyboard to touch your cheek, looking bemused, before he glances back at the screen. "In a minute," he says.

That won't do at all.  You reach a hand up to the back of his neck, rising up and pushing him away from the computer.  "I don't believe you _heard_ me," you say, your voice dropping low.  His face remains inscrutable behind his shades, but his muscles twitch beneath your hand.  Your lips curve.  "Don't keep a gentleman waiting, Strider."

He lets out a sigh like you're asking him for something terrible and weighty, the stars maybe, or honesty.  You laugh at him and lean in to peck his cheek, and quick as a mink he turns his head and catches your mouth.  His lips are terribly inviting, warm and soft against your own.  You do your best not to sag into his arms as they come up around you—the smug look he gave you when that happened last was delightful, but infuriating.

Dirk kisses the same way he comes at everything else: with patience for the long game and single-minded intent.  He cups your face in one hand and tilts his head as he presses in again.  Kisses flutter across your mouth, and you feel the slight hint of teeth nipping at your lower lip.  You whimper a little and the pleased noise he makes in the back of his throat makes you shiver.

"Take them off," you rasp, flicking at the corner of his shades.  He flinches back and looks at you.

"On the floor?" he says.  You can't tell from his tone if he's making fun of you or genuinely asking.  Probably a little of both.  His mouth is slick and red from kissing you and you can see his tongue slide against the roof of his mouth when he swallows and you have more important things to think about.

"It's too hot for sheets," you say, voice rough as you lean in for more.  Dirk readily obliges, one hand sliding down to your jaw and tipping your head back. Hunger sparks anew in your stomach, and you grin hazily at the fan above you.  "Live—a little, why don't you."

Dirk pulls his glasses off and you set them on his laptop, shove the whole pile of distractions to the side as he works open-mouthed kisses down your throat.  He doesn't need to be invited twice.

\--

A few hours later you wake up squinting at the late afternoon sun that slants through your windows.  You throw your forearm across your eyes, your other hand skimming thoughtlessly down your bare chest.  It doesn't get far.  Dirk is asleep on top of your stomach, and you give the crown of his head a lopsided grin.

"Morning in the swamp," you say as you shift your weight beneath him.  His eyes flash open. "The birds are singing and my legs are all pins and needles, Strider, time to rise and shine."

He rolls off of you with an easy grace that you ogle shamelessly.  He pats at his hair, seems to give it up as a lost cause, and then casts about for his glasses.  You leave him to his toilette and sit up, stretching your arms until the aches in your back ease somewhat.  Hardwood floors are pretty enough, but bloody awful to sleep on.

"Dinner, I think," you say.  He's already pulling his laptop open and you use your foot to nudge the lid back down again.  He frowns at you and you sigh at him.  "Let me take you out," you tell him, "we'll go to the Indian place across town, how does that sound?  The world wide web shall struggle on for a few more hours without you, I'm sure."

Dirk stares at you, and you wink.  His mildly disoriented expression shifts into a smile. "Nobody calls it that anymore," he tells you.  "It's called the Internet. Cyberspace. The information superhighway."

"Much like your mind, yes," you say.

Dirk vanishes into the bedroom to get dressed, and you cast about looking for your discarded clothing.  A few moments of searching locates your shirt on the back of a kitchen chair, and you pick at the wrinkles for a moment before forgetting about it.  You offer him your arm when he returns, and he chuckles as he takes it.  "Mr. English," he says to you, and as always you find his smile show-stopping.

"Mr. Strider," you reply as you open the door and step out into the early evening. "Let's paint the town red."

**Author's Note:**

> Faineancy means "being lazy or idle."
> 
> Hopefully part of a series. (I've got two or three more ficlets already going for this universe, so here's hoping.)


End file.
